


All Sorts of Therapy

by williamastankova



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caring Hannibal Lecter, First Kiss, Internal Conflict, M/M, POV Will Graham, Rejection, Season/Series 01, Someone Help Will Graham, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-17 13:11:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18965911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Will feels like he can't trust anybody anymore. Hannibal seems dead-set on proving to him that he can - he always can.





	1. Chapter 1

Will's been scoffing more lately. His deteriorating mental state has, apparently, made him more cynical, because he doesn't believe a word that comes out of anybody's mouth anymore. He's constantly thinking people are using him, for personal gain or scientific study, and, frankly, he's sick to death of it. He knows he's pushing people away, but if they don't care about him, why should he care about them?

The one person he can't manage to shake off is Hannibal. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how rude he is nor how insulting he is, no matter how patronising or anything, the man won't leave him alone. Each and every week, he hopes to receive the call that tells him not to bother coming in, this time or any other. It never comes, though, and he always ends up in his seat, sat across from Hannibal, as he is right now.

"How have you been sleeping?"

He expects the question every time, and every time it makes him roll his eyes and sigh, because _really_. Do psychiatrists these days have nothing better to ask? Hannibal knows what Will's seen - he's been there with him, seen it with his own two eyes, felt it to his very own core - so why does he insist on maintaining such a beige, professional conversation? Will's response is always the same, anyway.

"Fine," he resigns, settling into the predictable discussion, if it can even be called such a thing. "I've had no more dreams, no more nightmares. I feel brand new."

Hannibal gives him a pointed look, and says in a voice that's almost scolding, like he's done something dreadfully wrong, "I think we both know that's not true, Will."

Will makes a point of holding his eye, refusing to let him win by admitting defeat. He won't look away, because if he looks away he's telling Hannibal that he's right, that he was indeed lying, that he's been sleeping horrifically, if at all, and that's on a good night. He quirks an eyebrow at the man across from him.

"Then why don't you correct me, Doctor Lecter?" He mocks him, leaning forward just slightly in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "How _am_  I feeling?"

Will can't say he trusts the man further than he could throw him. He's sly, or at least he looks like he has the capacity to be. He has these narrow eyes - the kind you see foxes with, when they're devouring the prey they've been hunting for a considerable amount of time - and Will, to put it simply, just doesn't trust him.

"You're feeling unsure," Hannibal plays along, gives in to Will's game, bends to his every want and command. "You want to leave, this building and your job, but you're never going to do that, are you, Will?"

Well, Will hadn't quite expected him to get everything spot-on, in such an ornate fashion. He swallows, throat dry as sandpaper, and manages to force out a meek, "No."

Hannibal looks pleased, but he's not quite done. When he speaks again, his voice is less accusatory, and more inquisitive. He feels that he's had a breakthrough with Will, and he's not quite willing to let the chance die just yet. He asks Will another question.

"Why do you feel the need to shut everybody out?"

A cold sweat breaks out all across Will's body. He feels nauseous, but empty, like if he were to attempt to vomit, he'd only end up retching, tearing at his seamless insides. He shakes his head.

"Please don't do this," he warns, fiddling with his fingers, struggling to hold Hannibal's gaze now, "Just- stop it."

"Doing what, Will?" Hannibal inquires, sounding genuinely interested, leaning forward now, bringing them as close as they can be without standing up and crossing the distance between them.

"Stop pretending that you care about me," Will spits out at him, fearing the sensation that's brewing in the pit of his stomach, like every wall he's ever built to protect himself is about to crumble before his eyes, "I know you don't. Not you, not Jack, not Alana, nobody."

"But I do care about you, Will," Hannibal's voice is steady, monotone, almost sincere enough to make Will believe him, but not quite. "I've told you before, haven't I?"

"Yeah, well so did Alana, and now she's acting like she's never even known my name, so do forgive me for being hesitant to trust you," Will lets himself admit this dark confession. Then again, it doesn't really feel like a conscious action, more like Hannibal's got a rope down his throat and is fishing around for any and all answers he wants. It makes Will feel even more sick to his stomach.

"I'm not Alana, Will," Hannibal reminds him, as if he doesn't know already, as if it makes some sort of a difference. "I want you to talk to me."

Will scoffs, not for the first time that night, and falls back to a slouching position in his chair, feeling the intensity evaporate from his pores as he does so. "You want to get inside my head, Doctor? Well, I don't want you there. It's a dark place - darker than you could imagine. Darker than you could handle."

"You might be surprised," Hannibal responds ominously, "You don't know the things I've seen."

"There's years of issues I haven't dealt with," Will warns him, voice shaking and afraid, though he's not quite sure of what, "Ancient knots that I don't even know how to begin untangling."

"Let me help you," Hannibal offers, leaving Will in a stunned silence. He's not convinced, as per se, but Hannibal's words - his tone of voice, his expression, his everything - seem so legitimate, so kind, so patient, that he begins to question himself. It's not imperative, but a request - choices are things he sees so seldom as of late. He shakes his head, ridding himself of this doubt, and decides to shift the topic, just a little.

"I feel like everyone's miles away from me."

His admission sinks into the air. It's tangible, how it makes his surroundings denser. He feels suddenly like he's choking, so he stands up abruptly and all but races to the other side of the room to be beside the window, where he only then feels like he can breathe again. Hannibal simply watches him as he moves, and waits respectfully until he seems to have relaxed to counter his statement.

"I'm here, Will," Hannibal's gaze is hot on him, burning into his shoulder blades, never once letting him loose of the constant hold Hannibal seems to have on him, "I'm right here."

Will lets himself laugh a little. "That's your job, isn't it?"

He hears Hannibal move, but doesn't turn to look at him. The man crosses the room and stands beside him, so that Will can just about see him in his periphery. He swallows hard, and Hannibal's hand comes to rest firmly on his shoulder, most probably in an attempt to ground him. Hannibal's voice chirps into his formidable, racing mind, offering five simple words of considerate compassion.

"You aren't my patient, Will."

It's a small reminder, but it is admittedly something Will often forgets. Officially, he isn't one of Hannibal's patients. He doesn't work for him, not technically anyway. The profile had been cleared weeks ago now, leaving these meetings as something more conversational as opposed to real therapy, even if Hannibal does take notes still. Will finally lets himself cast his eyes over to the doctor, who's still watching him intently, as it seems he always is.

His head shakes, and he thinks at this rate it might be classified as convulsions, because he's done it so very many times in the past few minutes. He doesn't understand. He feels safe enough with Hannibal to ask him, to be upfront and straight-forward, so he voices his qualm - the primary one, at least.

"What do you want with me?"

Unlike he had been with his past questions, he's not trying to catch Hannibal out now. He doesn't want him to feel shameful, doesn't want him to pull back from him. Will just can't understand why somebody like Hannibal - such an educated, classy, intellectual man - would choose to spend each and every Tuesday evening and night with somebody like him - a boring, average teacher. Hannibal's mouth falls open, but it's a short while after that his response comes.

"You fascinate me," it's Hannibal's turn in the hot-seat of confession. He sighs, as Will had, and his eyes scan Will's face, outlining his features individually. Will's stomach begins to turn, churning and tucking and diving and rolling everywhere, when Hannibal's elegant fingers come to rest atop his cheek, thumbing small circles gently on the skin there. Something about him looks different - the way he's looking at Will looks different - but Will can't pinpoint any of it.

Will, possibly the most touch-starved person in the world ever, naturally begins to keen into the touch, like he wants it, like he was hoping for and expecting it. Only, he wasn't, and he knows he wasn't. He knows he can't do this, can't accept this, because in time - sooner or later - Hannibal's going to leave, and Will's going to look the fool for the countless time in his life.

He doesn't move Hannibal's hand, however, only stops himself leaning into it. This does not deter Hannibal, who shifts a little closer. When Will doesn't move back, doesn't shove him off even despite the conniving whispers in his head urging him to do so, he comes impossibly closer, and Will can feel the short, nervous bursts of breath hitting his face. He smells like fresh mint and dark chocolate.

"I don't understand," his mouth opens and the words tumble out, threatening to ruin the mood, "I don't understand any of this. Why me? Why now? Why not somebody more like you, somebody who's not broken and improper?"

He surprises himself as he doesn't shift away when Hannibal dips his head close, so close there's barely enough room for them to speak without their lips touching. He doesn't even look away, which is more than a personal record for him. He keeps looking at Hannibal, ushering his response out of his mouth, wishing him to speak or forever hold his peace and let Will be once and for all. Will's sick of all of the misplaced trust and waiting.

"Because," he pauses once more, tumbling the words around his head so distinctly that Will can almost see them through the man's skull, like an x-ray, "I don't want somebody who's proper, and unbroken. I want you."

Will's barely able to whisper out a breathless 'Hannibal' before the man is upon him. His kiss is nothing like Will had anticipated: it's precise, true, but it's so full of emotion. He'd always presumed that the doctor had no need - no want - for such intimate things, but feeling how perfected each and every motion feels, Will can't help but feel like he's gravely miscalculated. Unless, and the thought makes his mind run havoc, this is just him pouring how he feels into Will, and it's only the two of them together that could feel something so powerful.

He permits the kiss to go on for a moment, giving into his brain's insistence that it feels good, so it could never be wrong. He lets Hannibal kiss him, parting his lips when the older man gently and wordlessly suggests it. He registers that Hannibal tastes sweet, but not overly so. He doesn't feel like he's drowning, either, as he had done when he had tried to kiss other people relatively recently, which is a pleasant surprise, and perhaps his favourite part of the whole ordeal.

Then, as soon as he's let himself indulge in the binging habit, he forces himself to stop. No matter how his mind protests, he presses his hands to Hannibal's chest and pushes him away, making their lips part slowly, the sound echoing into the newfound quiet of the office. He senses the resistance on Hannibal's end, even if he complies completely in his actions. Part of Will wishes he could let this happen, let it go further, but he can't. He just can't.

"I'm sorry," he stutters out, avoiding Hannibal's eye as he knows the man is staring at him, waiting for him to look up so that he can properly initiate a conversation. This scares Will too much for him to let it happen: if they begin talking, they might get to the core, his core, and uncover something deeply disturbing to the both of them. He can't let Hannibal in like that, and as much as it hurts to reject him like he is, it'd hurt even more to lead him on, eluding to a relationship that can never blossom.

No sooner is his jacket on that he's out the door, taken by the night. He leaves in a hurry, suspecting some less dignified part of Hannibal wants to follow him. He knows if that happens he's a goner, so he picks up the pace and is soon enough in his car, starting the engine and leaving. He doesn't look back at the lit room as he drives, simply keeps his eyes fixed on the road before him.

This is going to be a long drive.


	2. Ridden of Inhibitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's not avoiding Hannibal. 'Avoiding' implies that it's intentional, and it's definitely not his fault that he just so happens to miss Hannibal's calls - every single one, every time he calls him, which is a lot as of late - and he can't make any of their sessions. That's just how the world works, he tells himself as he stares at the caller ID for Hannibal, who's trying once again to reach out to him.

Will's not avoiding Hannibal. 'Avoiding' implies that it's intentional, and it's definitely not his fault that he just so happens to miss Hannibal's calls - every single one, every time he calls him, which is a lot as of late - and he can't make any of their sessions. That's just how the world works, he tells himself as he stares at the caller ID for Hannibal, who's trying once again to reach out to him.

He sits beside the fire of his house. It isn't lit - hell, it's too hot for that now, in the middle of summer - but there's something about it that's still comforting to him. He's fiddling with a hook that he was meant to use that day, but for some reason he just couldn't make himself go fishing. That's how he knows things are bad: fishing is the only thing in the world he always wants to do, and he doesn't even want to do that anymore. He might as well be dying.

The ringing stops soon enough, but the weight in his chest doesn't lighten. He knows he's not doing the right thing, but he can't help himself. What was he supposed to do, anyway? Was he supposed to visit Hannibal still, attending their weekly meetings, pretending like they hadn't exchanged saliva the last time he was there? Like their mouths hadn't been mashing together moments before the last session ended? It helped Will to think of the action in a vulgar way - as terribly disgusting as he could possibly manage - because then he didn't want it. Well, not as much, at least.

He hadn't really thought of Hannibal that way before. He'd noticed how well his face was structured, sure, and once or twice he'd acknowledged how a woman (or man, he hadn't ever really known Hannibal's sexuality, and had never had occasion to ask about it) could find his body attractive, but nothing much more than that. Now, though, it's all he can think about. In his dreams, spilling into his waking life, disrupting everything he thought and did. He couldn't even work at crime scenes properly anymore, and without that, what exactly /was/ he?

Unable to bear another second in his mind that felt ready to snap at any given moment, he stood up abruptly and made his way over to grab himself a drink. He poured the glass, then settled himself by the counter, not wanting to go back to his seat for some inexplicable reason. It was as though the chair had a poor impact on his mental state, and elicited thoughts - real thoughts - about things he didn't want to think about.

After the first glass was down in record time, he poured himself another, and then another after that. He spent at least fifteen minutes just knocking back drinks, refilling the glass and repeating. Then, to break this self-destructive routine, there came a sudden knock at the door. Each of his senses piqued individually, and he immediately set eyes on his gun by the door.

He crept slowly towards the front door, considering his options as he did so. The knocking only came once, but he was sure whoever was outside hadn't given up that easily. He shot his eyes back to the clock, which read half past eleven as night. Who had a good reason to be knocking on his door that late?

He cautiously stopped before the door, tossing about the idea of pretending he wasn't in around his mind, before shaking it off and resting a hand on the door handle. He gripped the cold metal firmly, then flung it open in a millisecond. There, stood on his unlit porch in the middle of the night, completely unannounced, was Hannibal.

"Will," the all-too familiar voice rang in his ears, like a sickeningly sweet song, "May I come in?"

The scene was one he remembered, having already happened. The first time they had met (well, technically second, but the first properly) was not dissimilar: Hannibal had shown up at his door unannounced, and he had rolled his eyes and deliberated on what to do. A malevolent part of him longed to slam the door in Hannibal's face, but the rest of him knew he wouldn't do such a thing. He stepped aside reluctantly, cursing his earlier drinks, praying as Hannibal entered that he wouldn't be betrayed by his own body, mind and wants.

Hannibal turned on his heel, with purpose. He scanned the entirety of Will's home as he did so, surveying everything about it, undoubtedly analysing Will's state in the process. His mouth opened as his gaze landed on Will, and four words tumbled over his lips.

"Your hair is different."

The corners of Will's mouth tipped upwards at the colloquial introduction. It contrasted their earlier standoffish-ness so blatantly, that it bordered on amusing. Will shook his head, smiling to himself, then nodded and concurred.

"Yeah," he said breathily, beaming, finding the situation inexplicably funny, as well as dreadfully awkward, "Yeah, I got a haircut."

Hannibal nodded once in response, his own smile showing through his cool facade. He gestured to the thin coat in his arms, then changed the subject in favour of it. "Where shall I put this?"

"Oh, I- uh," Will suddenly leapt into action, stepping closer to Hannibal and grasping the material, taking the jacket from him. He did not miss how Hannibal's hands lingered for just a beat too long as he took it. "I'll just put it by the door."

"Excellent," Hannibal said, and his eyes followed Will all the way to the door as he hung up the fabric, then all the way back. "It's lovely to see you, Will."

Will felt guilty. Like a child caught with his hand stuck in the cookie jar, he knew he'd been caught out, and so opted for his irresistible puppy-dog face to get him out of at least some of the trouble. He sucked in a breath, lowering his voice as he spoke.

"Sorry, I've been a little busy. Jack's been working me to the bone."

He had no problem with lying about this; it was only half untrue. He had been trying his very best to bury himself in his work in order to distract himself from Hannibal. It had worked, to an extent, because until now he had managed to evade thinking solely about the man, but this was counteractive: now, when he saw him, all of the thoughts came rushing back to him, and he began to think about the man before in a hundred thousand different contexts.

There was one he had tried his very hardest to ignore. The one that implored him to look at Hannibal - to really, properly look at him, for who he was and how he acted - and /admire/ him. Hannibal, despite looking delectable, was not somebody for him to desire in such a way. It was unprofessional, even if he wasn't strictly Hannibal's subject, because they still met as such, and it was wrong - so wrong, so ungodly.

"How long will this go on for, Will?" Hannibal managed not to sound insulting as he posed the question, but merely tired and even a little disappointed. It was difficult for Will to decide if this was better or worse than the alternative.

He decided to play the fool. "How long will what go on for?"

"This," Hannibal nodded, gesturing to the two of them, "Our flirtation, for lack of a better word. You have been avoiding me, Will. Why is that?"

Any comfort Will had begun to feel went flying out of the window into the humid night, leaving him with only tingling nerves and a sense of delicious impending doom. He fidgeted, edging towards his drink again, though not quite making it the whole way before he stopped to speak. "Do you ever mean the things you say?"

"What do you mean?" Hannibal sounded intrigued, not at all like he wanted to run away, go for the hills, never see him again. He'd thought he sounded mad, but apparently Hannibal disagreed. "What have I said, Will?"

"You say you care about me and my well=being," Will explained, looking into Hannibal's eyes now, even despite how sick it made him feel to do so. He elaborates further, "You say you want me to be safe. Do you mean any of it? Would you leave if I did something you didn't like? Would you give up on me?"

Hannibal's the first to move closer, yet again. For a moment, Will's thrust back into himself from weeks ago now, back in Hannibal's office for the first time. He doesn't make it all the way to Will, stopping half way as he watches the man from afar, opting to speak to convey his feeling instead.

"Of course not," Hannibal says as though stating the obvious, "You and I are alike, Will. In ways you couldn't ever imagine."

"I'm sure," Will scoffs at the ludicrous notion, because /really/. "And how do you know that?"

"I know many things, Will," Hannibal's tone is somehow still serious, but not heavy and weighed down. Talking to Will doesn't put a burden on his shoulders as it does everybody else - as it should do to him - and this only frightens and excites Will more. "About you, and about me. About everybody."

"Everybody?" Will takes a step forward - more of a stride, considering the ground he covers with it. "Surely not everybody, Doctor; that seems beyond dangerous."

"No one man should hold the knowledge of the universe," Hannibal agrees with him in a riddle, as they so often do to dance around a topic, "He who holds the every piece of knowledge holds the keys to every door. Tell me, Will, would you let me into your mind, or would you shut me out like everybody else?"

"You're not like everybody else," his words earn him a subtle smile from Hannibal, prompting him to continue, "Not to me you aren't."

Hannibal smirks. "And why is that, do you think?"

"Every time I'm near you, it feels real," Will entertains the man, talking in poems and metaphors, knowing this is the beauty and intricacy of life that the man adores, "It's not like when I'm with Alana or Jack; nobody understands me like you do."

Hannibal's breath seems to catch in his throat as he listens to Will speak. Then, as soon as he seems like he's going to do something - anything, Will's mind wishes - he stops. Instead of moving close, he utters, "I'm sorry, Will."

Will shakes his head in confusion. "Sorry... sorry about what?"

"About our last appointment," Hannibal looks sorrowful - regretful, God forbid - as he continues, "That was... unprofessional of me. I shouldn't have done that."

"No," Will whispers, shaking his head, wanting the man to stop apologising for it. He can see more clearly now, at least his forever-hazy mind seems to think so, "No, you don't mean that."

"I do, Will," Hannibal sounds so disturbingly sincere, Will thinks about launching himself across the room and into the man's arms to stop him speaking such nonsense. "You have requested that we stay as patient and doctor, and I gravely misunderstood a boundary, and I overstepped it. From now, you have my word that I will give you space - as much as you want."

"I don't want that," Will bravely takes a step forward, ignoring every cell in his body fighting him, telling him to turn back and accept the apology, to move on as he had wanted to not five minutes ago. "Don't give me space; that's the last thing I want from you."

Will's never felt more convinced of anything in his life. Even though there's something undeniably sinister about the man, he wants to know him. Will longs to understand Hannibal, to have the man let him pry under his skin, in return for Will letting him into his mind - granting him access that nobody else could ever have. He wants an even balance of give and take, he wants to know Hannibal. He needs to know him.

The next step forward he takes brings them impossibly close, and makes Hannibal's breath get caught audibly in his throat. He's tentative as he reaches out a hand and brings it to rest on Hannibal's sharp cheek, running a single finger down his face until he reaches his lips. He tucks his hand beneath Hannibal's chin, and the man lets him thumb at his bottom lip. It feels almost like a courtship.

"Will," Hannibal is all breath and weak-knees as he says his name, and Will doesn't think he's ever had so much power over the man. "You don't have to do this."

"I know," Will smiles wider, feeling more sure at Hannibal's words, feeling more certain that this is what he himself wants. "But I want to."

Hannibal's eyes go hooded, dark, at his words. His eyes follow every movement Will makes, as he shakes, as he watches Hannibal for a sign that he should stop. He finds none, so he sets his eyes on Hannibal's lips and makes to go for them. It takes an eternity, or at least it feels like it does, but it's worth it when their lips meet - both wanting now, both having waited far too long. The intoxicated buzz runs through Will's veins, spurring him on.

He thinks he's going to take the lead, given how submissive Hannibal had been acting in the lead-up to the kiss, but as soon as their lips are pressed together, the tables turn. In an instant, Hannibal's got his hands on his back, resting at the small of it, and he's kissing him with such unexpected fervour that Will thinks he's run out of oxygen already. He can only dig his fingers into the cropped hairs on Hannibal's head and cling on for dear life as the man kisses him, leaving small bites every so often. He thinks this could be hell, or it could be heaven.

It's torture, waiting for them to move. Hannibal finally begins walking them backwards, hands slipping lower and lower, directing him almost on instinct to Will's bedroom. There's no objection on Will's end, with every touch from Hannibal feeling like a shock of electricity shooting through his entire body, leaving him wide-awake and ready for anything the man wants to do to him. It feels dangerous, but not wrong - God, no, never wrong...

Hannibal's focus shifts from his mouth to his jawline and neck, where he begins to leave dark marks, sucking and biting the sensitive flesh there. Will squirms at this feeling, but wouldn't ever dream of shoving him away. The man, especially in that moment, means too much to him, and the sensation is far too good. He never wants him to stop.

The doctor intentionally trips him up, sending adrenaline rushing throughout him, to get him to lie down on the bed. It's possibly the most unexpectedly romantic thing Will's ever experienced (probably because he's only ever really tried things with women, and the ones he's chosen are never strong enough nor daring enough to pull such a move). He's left looking up at Hannibal as he lays on his back, feeling rather like prey in the sight of a predator.

Hannibal's quick to remove his shirt, then he's back on Will, like there's no place he'd rather be then right beside him - atop of him, feeling their hearts beat in unison. Will relishes in the feeling of Hannibal's hands roaming across his entire body, favouring his sides, playing particularly at his upper chest, clawing at his ribs through his skin. Will can almost hear him purring a gentle, caring 'you should eat more' into their kiss, but he's thankful the verbal lecture doesn't come.

/If Hannibal wants him to eat better/, he concludes as his mind drifts into a blissful, euphoric blackness, /he can cook for him any time he wants to./

**

The next morning, he wakes up sore. There's not much he can remember from the night prior, except feeling isolated and then suddenly not. He remembers drinking, he remembers hearing a knock at the door, and that's about it. His mind is thumping so loudly, he's pretty sure his heart is about to explode anyway, so the finer details don't exactly matter.

Except, when he becomes more aware of his surroundings, it seems that they do in fact matter, because there's a body that's seeping heat sleeping beside him, and he doesn't remember anything about who it is. From first glance, it's immediately obvious that it's a man. While this wasn't exactly what he was anticipating, there's nothing shocking about it: he's always known he's had an attraction to men, so this is only one or two steps further, and he's always thought exploration is important.

But then, as though reading his mind, the man makes a sleepy noise but sounds as though he's stirring, and then he's turning over where he lies and Will can see his face, and his dark eyes looking adoringly up at him. He stretches out a strong arm, and runs his fingers with ease. He looks peaceful as he does this, as though it's the most common thing in the world. His voice, always deep, is sweet as he speaks, sending a cacophony roaring through his mind. Will thinks he might be sick.

"Good morning, Will."

It's Hannibal; it's really him. And now, thanks to his released inhibitions the night before, Will's left with the consequences. Oh, whatever will he do?

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed. :)
> 
> feel free to leave any comments etc. below, as I love reading what people thought. also I'm not sure whether this should be added to, or left as an angsty one-shot? let me know, and leave any ideas for future chapters (if that's what you want)!


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